


TIE Fighter: Defiance

by ImperialGirl



Series: Star Wars: TIE Fighter [6]
Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Gen, Imperial Fic, Military fic, Series Work, TIE Fighter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-10 21:39:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7009138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImperialGirl/pseuds/ImperialGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Several months before the events of "Heir to the Empire", the Star Destroyer INS Defiance is on patrol at the edge of Wild Space, but instead of rebels or pirates, they awaken an enemy their starfighter commander Rurik Caelin recognizes all too well. Part of the TIE Fighter series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Desperate Measures

**Author's Note:**

> A brief interlude set between "TIE Fighter: Command Decisions" and "TIE Fighter: Resurrection." If you don't read TF: CD first, you won't have a lot of the context. That ended shortly after the Battle of Endor (ie "Return of the Jedi") and this takes place in the same general time period as "Tatooine Ghost", or if you prefer a little less than a year before the events of "Heir to the Empire.". INS Defiance is an Imperial-class Star Destroyer which had been part of the fleet assigned to explore the Unknown Regions, but which was pulled in to the Outer Rim fleet in the aftermath of Endor. Now, she's been sent on another of those fruitless raids by yet another would-be warlord that takes her to the edge of known space. There she encounters an alien menace barely seen before in the Empire, and painfully familiar to her starfighter squadron commander...

You would think dying would be easy for a TIE fighter pilot, but somewhat to Rurik's dismay, he'd managed to foul even that up. Despite four years of flying any fighter on offer no matter how archaic or un-spaceworthy, of leaping to volunteer himself or his wing for any duty, no matter how hazardous, despite refusing any offer to transfer from starfighters to safer, more stable bridge work or even first officer on a smaller capital ship, he had utterly failed to get himself killed once and for all.

Worse, all of that effort had gotten him promoted all the way to Colonel in command of all the _Defiance_ 's TIE fighters.

The asteroid field between the third and fourth planets of System V-2731-A (as the survey fleet had designated it) was the common intra-system sort, widely spaced with thousands of klicks between the massive rocks. Not like that debris field near the Hoth system that had chewed up half a dozen TIEs on Vader's quixotic hunt for the Rebel freighter (Rurik blinked away a memory of that same freighter dancing among the Rebel capital ships over Endor) but cluttered enough to hide a base in. What the Warlord-of-the-Week intended to do with a base practically in Wild Space Rurik didn't know, and as he'd pointed out to his wingman and second in command, Zeth Orono, he didn't care.

"The day you care about something is the day I'll start worrying, boss." Zeth triple-checked the air hoses on his flight suit. "You never care about anything. Not even what we're having in the mess this week, and that's something we should all be worried about."

"None of it's killed anyone yet." True, there had been that incident with a sudden outbreak of what could politely be described as the trots among almost all of Delta shift but as far as he knew, no one had actually died. They might have wished to die of embarrassment, but no one had actually done so. "And if it did, that just means an end to this pointless round of existence. Our long string of leaders can't even excel at losing to the Rebels. Dying of something would be a nice break in the monotony."

"Boss, with all due respect," and despite their being on far better terms than they'd once been, perhaps as close as Rurik was willing to admit to being friends, he knew when Zeth used that phrase he was about to say something exceptionally disrespectful, "I've said it before and I'll say it again: you desperately need to get laid."

"Tried that. Didn't end well the last time." Had that been the little supply clerk with the platinum hair? Or the tapcaf waitress on their last shore leave, whenever that had been? The tapcaf girl, with short-cropped copper curls and pale green eyes. Weeks? Months? He'd lost track and he didn't care. He certainly didn't remember her name.

"Oh?" Zeth had also spent the last few years perfecting being obnoxious without being too much so. "Promise to comm her, then lose her number?"

"No, the last thing she said before I left was 'Whoever this Thelea is, she's a lucky girl.'" Mentally Rurik patted himself on the back. Not a waver, not a crack in his voice, not the slightest change of tone at all.

"Kriff." There was no derision in Zeth's voice, at least. "Still?"

"I told you." Rurik slammed his locker harder than he really ought. "Until I die. I just didn't anticipate it taking so long." Maybe today. Maybe whatever fool's errand they were being sent on would be the end of it and he'd finally have blissful oblivion, no more dreams of glimmering cobalt hair and alien eyes, no more hearing her last transmission cut off mid-sentence even as he tried to turn and find her.

No more seeing Giriad's port solar panel shatter in a billion fiery sparks. No more relieving the blast that sent him tumbling as the Empire's last great weapon turned into a supernova and took the best and brightest of the fleet with it. No more.

He turned, his flight helmet tucked under his arm, and the other pilots snapped to attention. Almost none of them had been with the fleet at Endor. Recruits, transfers, even a few conscripts, though they weren't often trusted with the no-longer-expendable TIEs. None of them really knew him as anything but _Defiance_ 's starfighter commander, remote and cold as hard vac, never cruel, but never really anyone's friend. Except Major Orono, and they were, after all, survivors of Death Squadron, the finest ships of the fleet. Aloof, above, to get a smile from Colonel Caelin was a momentous achievement. Even now they were all watching him, half-afraid, half-hopeful that today might be the day they'd earn the supreme honor of an honest 'well done.'

He scanned their flight suits. No kinked hoses, status lights and switches where they should be, no worn patches or obvious repairs. A brisk nod, but they knew that meant they passed inspection. Whatever they were going out to face, they were prepared.

It turned out that was prowling around an alleged abandoned Rebel base. Personally Rurik thought the layout of the asteroid base looked more like pirates, or smugglers, with a few half-empty cargo containers and blast marks that did _not_ look typical for a Rebel base they'd abandoned, rather than been driven out of. Either way, any defensive weapons had been either destroyed or disabled. There were no craft attacking them, no heat blooms, which suggested that whoever had left, they'd done it a while ago.

Rurik stared at his Interceptor's targeting display, only half-paying attention as he darted around the slow-tumbling asteroids. Zeth, tagging close on his right wing, said, "There's enough scorch marks out here you'd think they started target-shooting asteroids out of boredom."

"There is a lot of scoring." And some of it looked strange. Turbolaser blasts generally shattered rock, but some of it almost read like melting damage, superheated surfaces that had bubbled and cracked like overheated glass. "Mining debris, maybe?"

"Maybe." Zeth sounded about as convinced as Rurik felt, which was not very. "Sensors getting anything?"

"Negative. In fact, too negative." He adjusted the targeting frequency, frowning at the display.

"Didn't think you could be _too_ negative about anything, Boss."

"I'm going to meet you on the sparring court later and beat the sarcasm out of you."

"I don't think that's appropriate treatment of a junior officer." Zeth swung out of formation just a bit, banking towards one of the larger asteroids. "Boss, take a look. Twenty degrees down, that big crater."

Rurik followed his wingman down and studied the formations dotting the rim of the ancient impact crater's wall. "Those aren't Rebel tech, whatever they are." They were inky black mounds, so dark they almost seem to draw light into themselves instead of reflecting. The crater seemed deep, too, cast in dark shadows and he couldn't see the bottom. "If it's alien, it's nothing I've ever seen before."

Deep in the black depths of the crater, something glittered, shadow-on-shadow, and moved.

Primal fear and instinct meant Rurik was throwing his fighter up, Zeth and Alpha Three, his other wingman, following him before their fighters could be caught in a cascade of increasingly-powerful explosions that blasted rock and debris into the space around the asteroid. That gave them the distance to be clear, barely, when the blacker-than-space, insectoid shape of the dark ship screamed out of the crater. Rurik knew the white-hot plasma weapons, the dark, spiny profile that made keeping a visual on the attacking ship borderline-impossible, and the shrieking sound of frequency jamming cutting off communication with their capital-ship home base. "Squadron, report in if you can hear me!"

He got eight of what should have been nine replies, including Zeth saying, "Two to Lead. Boss, what in the nine starless hells is that thing?"

"Something nasty, Two." Rurik felt a sick sense of deja vu. Years ago, when he and his dead squadronmates had been escorting a freighter, a ship very much like the insectoid nightmare rising out the crater, only larger, had yanked the ship out of hyperspace and destroyed it. Before shattering the freighter, they had jammed communications between the ship and its escorts, but left the fighters free to communicate. Just as they'd now cut the TIE squadron off from the _Defiance._

"All fighters, turn back and defend the ship! Those were sensors of some kind on the crater and it just woke something up. Our blaster cannons aren't going to do much damage, but we need to buy time for _Defiance_ to deal with her." He knew exactly what he was asking, and for once not even Zeth had a smart comeback. Eight lives against thirty thousand or so aboard the Star Destroyer-even if it wouldn't be his own final liberation he'd craved so long, it wasn't even a choice. If they could give _Defiance_ just long enough to deliver a fatal blow, or even just to get away safe to hyperspace . . . that was what they were here for.

Rurik snapped his Interceptor in a tight, twisting curve, dodging the larger chunks of debris the ship's takeoff had thrown into the space around the asteroid. Zeth's fighter stayed snug on his wing, but he saw an enormous chunk of the spinning debris clip Three's starboard solar panel, sending him into a fatal spin before he shattered against one of the bigger asteroids. Seven lives left, and Rurik was mildly surprised at his own lack of envy at the quick end. If they lived, he thought, he had letters of condolence to write. What he'd say about how these men had died, he didn't know.

A white-hot burst of energy that set his systems crackling reminded him if he wasn't careful no one was going to know what had happened to any of them.

"Boss, it's closing on the _Defiance!_ " That had been Six, one of the younger, newer members of the squadron, and part of Rurik's mind noted approvingly he sounded only the faintest bit green. "I can't tell if our canons are even penetrating their shields."

"If they have shields." That was Four, one of the veterans who'd been with them since . . . two years? Three? It was easy to lose track. Rurik knew their names, of course, but except for Zeth, he tried not to think of them. "The energy doesn't dissipate, it just sort of vanishes against the hull."

"They absorb it," Six said, "it looks more like they just soak it in!"

"Watch the chatter," Rurik said. That was easier than watching the black ship, which seemed to curl and ripple around the edges, blending with the starfield and breaking up its silhouette. "If they're using our own energy against us, we deny them that source. Two Flight, target the asteroid at sixteen degrees from the front of that thing–watch those energy beams! Don't vaporize the rock, just break it into smaller chunks and come at it from the far side–I want those big pieces in its path." He wished, futilely, for the expensive, rare, but almost-invincible Defenders, something with more power or even a mini-tractor to use the asteroids more easily as mass drivers.

" _Defiance_ to Alpha Leader," and he switched comm frequencies so the rest of the squadron wasn't listening. "You are ordered to return to the hangar for emergency jump."

A flare outside his cockpit canopy and a blink from his targeting computer told him Seven had just been vaped. "Complying, _Defiance._ " No point in false heroics, considering he was down to six. Even if he wasn't overly worried about being reduced to component elements, there was no reason to take the squad down with him. And if he had to go, he thought with a shudder, no matter how much of a relief it would be, he realized he did _not_ want it to be at the hands (or whatever appendages they had) of the dark ships. "All fighters, new orders, return to base. Break off and return to base."

He heard the acknowledgments and Six's very-young voice, "We're giving up, sir?"

"Orders, Six." He resisted the urge to tell the young pilot to enjoy this rare foray into discretion being the better part of valor. "Two, you're on me, we're last in. _Defiance_ , stand by for docking, four coming in hot–"

There was a blast of ionizing energy and Rurik heard a scream, quickly cut off, and another blip flicked out on his targeting system. He would not have time to find out if Six was just too green to be easily-rattled, or just not bright enough. At this rate, he wouldn't have to worry about condolences and death papers, either, as someone was going to have to do them for him, as well. "Zeth, a slot just opened up."

"I admire pragmatism, Boss, but negative, I'm on you until we're in."

" _Defiance_ , ready for flying pickup, need docking tractors hot!" He saw the remaining three wingmen racing for the Destroyer's underside, and kicked his own drive into gear. The targeting system was slipping around the dark ship, unable to get a lock, and then the computer was busy trying to deal with a field of debris–Two Flight's rubble barrier, and he was abruptly focused on not hitting any of the larger pieces, or letting the smaller stuff shred his cockpit. Zeth's Interceptor was hard on his tail, and the tiny part of him that still admitted sentiment was glad. His computer squealed as a far more concentrated bolt flared past, and he wondered if whatever variant on their enemy's tech this was didn't have the pinpoint targeting the small drone fighters did.

There was a blinding flash that for a moment overloaded all his systems, backwash from something big and close being hit and for one frozen, choking moment he was at Endor, the debris and plasma field of the Rebel frigate being incinerated by the Death Star enveloping him and he was certain he was about to be vaporized, too. Then his vision cleared, and he saw the fire and blackened hull. The dark ship hadn't missed them. It was targeting the _Defiance_ , ignoring the pathetic little fighter gnats in favor of the richer goal, the bigger danger. Not that the heavy turbolaser bolts now flying past from the Destroyer's batteries were doing much visible damage.

"Still with us, Boss?" As the static started to clear he could hear Zeth's voice, crackling through the last of the jamming.

"No promotions for you today." He surprised himself by how there was still humor in his tone, dry and slight but still there. "Skim the surface and when we hit the midpoint, ninety-degree turn and down to the hangar. Too much open space if we make the normal run in."

"The boys on the turbo batteries may take care of us for them," his wingman observed, but Zeth was hard on his wing, with the _Defiance_ 's hull flashing beneath them at eye-watering speed. Rurik could barely see the various laser ports, projectors, and other landmarks telling him how far they'd gone, but his internal clock told him they'd gone far enough they were almost directly above the main hangar entrance. He snap-rolled and they shot across the short axis, diving down toward the ship's underbelly.

The hard jolt of the tractor beams snagged him and he smashed down hard on his engine control switch, cutting power as his Interceptor was half-guided, half-flung into the hangar. Repulsors barely slowed him as instead of the normal delicate docking in their racks he simply pointed the fighter for the deck plates and braked hard as the tractors cut out. He could hear the scream of stressed durasteel gouging into the deck plates as his fighter and Zeth's both ground to a halt, but any landing where there were no hull ruptures and you could still open the hatch was a good landing. He ditched his helmet in the cockpit and scrambled out, dropping to the deck with just enough time to notice the other three fighters already safely landed before the entire ship's deck bucked like a dewback trying to toss a particularly-heavy pack and Rurik was thrown to his knees.

The alarms were screaming so loudly–collision, hull breach, he couldn't even sort out which it was–he could barely hear the voices shouting at him as he staggered upright. Zeth and two of the other pilots (Eight and Four, he told himself) were hurrying to help him up and he waved them off as a haggard-looking deck officer ran towards them.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he snapped, waving the assistance away. "What just happened?"

The deck officer, eyes wild and any pretense of military discipline long gone, staggered to a halt. "Colonel, we've lost the bridge!"

"What?" He heard a stifled curse from one of the other pilots but didn't bother trying to sort out who it was. "What do you mean, lost?"

"The conning tower just took a direct hit. Another minute and we'd have lost tractors bringing you in. The alarm says hull breach but internal comm's cut off and the computer is showing no atmosphere on the main bridge."

"No abandon ship order?" He didn't hear the klaxon for that but if things were as bad as they appeared to be . . . .

"Not yet, but there might not be anyone to give it!" The ship heaved again, and the hangar lights flickered ominously. There was no alert of venting atmosphere at least.

"He's got a point, sir," and it had to be serious if Zeth was calling him sir. "If they vented the bridge, no one's alive to give the order."

"They could be on the secondary battle bridge." The lower control bridge was primarily a backup and an additional communications and control position, redundant during normal operations and generally the place for green, middling, or otherwise unexceptional crew and officers. Right now, though, if the main bridge was open to space, any hope for helm control, shields, or even authority to give an evacuation order, was down there. Probably in the hands of a terrified lieutenant commander, which made it a minor miracle they'd even had the tractor control to land. "Major Orono, find out the status of engineering and report it to the secondary bridge. I'm going down there and finding out who's in charge. Deck crew, get anything you can ready to fly, pilots to their stations. If we have to abandon ship we can get as many people as we can off in the shuttles and troop transports if there's time. Escape pods won't last in this sort of debris."

"Aye, sir," and the deck officer sounded infinitely relieved that someone at least seemed to know what was going on.

If he could have seen the thoughts running through Rurik's head, most prominently _What in the void am I doing?_ , he might not have been quite so reassured. But the deck officer was no Jedi, and as Rurik took off at a run for the lifts, he could hear orders being shouted behind him. He only hoped they were the right ones.

The secondary bridge was only slightly quieter, and the lieutenant commander who came rushing over, throwing a hasty salute, looked disproportionately relieved to see a senior officer, even one in a TIE pilot's flight suit. "Colonel! That . . . cruiser, or frigate, or-or whatever it is has backed off for the moment, but we've lost aft shields completely, we have 100% loss of atmosphere on the main bridge, no one answering our comm attempts, our starboard-side turbolasers are down to 22%, and we've sustained serious damage to our sublight engines."

"It could be worse, Lieutenant Commander . . . ."

"Sosabow, sir."

"Commander Sosabow, it could be worse." Rurik was uncertain quite how, but he'd worry about that later. "There's no contact from Captain Breutje?"

"No, sir," and Sosabow shook his head in a very unprofessional display of nerves. "We're showing bridge atmosphere at zero and the airtight doors closed automatically. We have to assume everyone on the main bridge is dead or incapacitated."

"Probably the former," and Rurik thought even to his own ears that sounded fatalistic. "Who's the senior officer remaining?"

"Well . . . ." Before Rurik could reprimand him for prevaricating, "since you came back aboard, well, Colonel . . . you are."

_Well, shaffit._

He realized the crew and the officers behind them in the pit were looking up at him, and he saw far too many wide-eyes, ashen faces and trembling hands. Even Sosabow looked pale and there was a desperation in his eyes, a plea for someone else, anyone else, to take responsibility for the _Defiance_ and what was left of her crew. Even if that someone was from starfighter command, and notorious among the crew for only two things, barely speaking two sentences to anyone not also a pilot, and never meeting a suicide mission he didn't volunteer for. Considering at least some of them had to know that, the faint, desperate hope in some of their faces looked horribly misplaced.

Then again, he had yet to meet a suicide mission he didn't like, and he was still standing here.

_And come on, Rurik. What would_ she _have done?_ In the back of his mind, a distant memory spooled out of storage, Thelea in the command room on Telamara, a blockade of similar ships ready to rain death on the world below. _"We're the Imperial Navy. This doesn't happen to us."_ And she had set to prove that was true.

"Very well. As of now, I am assuming acting command of this ship," though he doubted any of them cared if he followed the proper formal phrasing or not. "You've said what we don't have. What's left?"

"Hyperdrive and navicomputer are operational," and the relief practically radiated from Sosabow. "Tractors, except for the number two projector," the farthest-forward on the starboard side, not surprising if the starboard turbolasers were gone, too, "life-support at 92% except on the main bridge, and we have forward shields at 78%."

"Proton torpedo launchers?" Rurik headed for the command bank, smaller than the main bridge but with similar tactical displays, and grimaced at the sea of red warnings and system failures.

"Both forward launchers are damaged and inoperative, Captain."

He flinched. "Acting Captain," he corrected. "Why have they backed off?"

It was a rhetorical question but Sosabow answered anyway. "One of the larger asteroids is between our forward bulkhead and the enemy ship, sir. We believe they're having to maneuver around it."

"Rather than just blasting it, or trying to move it out of the way." Why? "How large? The size of the one that ship was on when we woke it up?"

Sosabow tapped a few keys. "A little more than two-thirds the mass, sir."

Rurik grimaced. "Meaning they may be protecting it because they have something else stashed there." He studied the display a few more seconds. "And without torpedoes and half our lasers down, no chance of blowing it up. And that ship just drinks in energy beams anyway, we'd just be reinforcing them. We can't even shoot our way clear for a jump."

Then he paused. Stared a moment longer at the position of the asteroid and the computer's best guess at the position of the enemy cruiser. Then he keyed up the navicomputer and stared at the gravwell limits the system projected for any jump out of here.

"Did you say we had functional tractor beams? Other than the number two projector, I mean?" he asked, rounding on Sosabow.

The lieutenant commander blinked and nodded. "Yes, sir. Not that we can get a lock on that ship. Main bridge tried."

"I don't need a lock on the ship, I need a lock on that asteroid. Helm!"

The "Aye, sir, " from the crew pit that came in response was wavering, but loud enough.

"Plot a vector for a hyperspace jump. Anywhere, for the moment, just enough to get us out of this system and back towards Imperial space. Be ready to engage the moment the vector is green. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Tractor beams, lock on to that asteroid that's between us and the ship. I know you can't see exactly where their cruiser is, but make your best guess. On my mark, I want you to use the tractor beams to swing the asteroid straight into their ship."

"Captain, helm," and Rurik didn't bother to correct the officer, "I don't have a clean path ahead of us. We'd need sublight maneuvering to make a clear jump."

Rurik ground his teeth and stared at the tactical readout another moment. "Do you have docking bow thruster power, helm?"

The response was a bit more hesitant this time, but the uncertain voice said, "Aye, sir."

"Then on my mark, use both bow thrusters to push us nose-up, there should be a clear path if you angle us 85 degrees up from our current plane, and then engage the hyperdrive. Do you understand?"

"Not really, sir, but standing by bow thrusters on your mark."

Well, full points for honesty, anyway. "Good. Tractor beam, do you have the asteroid locked in?"

"Yes, sir, but my sensors aren't reading the enemy ship's location clearly." That voice was female, he thought, but relatively collected, more so than the helm officer.

"Use your best estimate, crewman," Rurik said, still watching the tactical display. "Helm, is our jump course locked in?"

"Based on eighty-five degrees positive pitch from our current position, yes, sir."

"Very good." He drew a deep breath. This was either going to work, or get them all killed, and he wasn't sure which was the more terrifying option. "Tractor control–bring the asteroid about, twenty-five degree yaw to starboard, pitch at 45 degrees, maximum power." If the blur, metal-but-not, ion charges, and some sort of distortion of the starfield that the sensors were showing was the enemy ship, that course should shove the massive rock directly into it. Hopefully it was more vulnerable to heavy mass than energy weapons.

"Tractor beam aye," came the response, and as he saw the asteroid begin to swing up, propelled by the beam's invisible sling, Rurik spun on his heel and looked to the helm.

"Bow thrusters at full, 85 degree up angle!" The deck plates shuddered, and he saw their position begin to change on the monitors. There was a horrible shuddering, and a scream like overstressed metal that somehow reverberated through their hull as the asteroid found its target. The sound cut straight to his bones, like something living shrieking in uncomprehending pain, and he saw Sosabow and others grabbing for support or covering their ears against the inhuman noise and the rattling as pieces of something, most likely the asteroid as it shattered into the enemy vessel, impacted on their shields. He could see a bright-white flare on the monitors but he also saw the navicomputer's projected course change from red to green. "Helm–emergency hyperspace jump, now!"

For a heart-stopping moment, there was a new, violent shaking, and he was certain they weren't going to make it, that _Defiance_ was going to tear herself apart trying to break free. And then, with the bone-grinding sound of the dying enemy ship still ringing in their heads, the deck trembled with the familiar, comforting thrum of the massive stardrive engaging and outside, the streaks of light changed to mottled white and blue as they made the jump and were away.

There was a long, long pause, where the only sounds were the comforting hum of the engines and the ragged sound of anxious breathing, maybe a few choked sobs. Rurik gave himself a count of ten to make sure his voice wasn't going to crack and he wasn't going to break into hysterical laughter, and said, "Status report."

For a second, Sosabow looked absolutely lost, as if he couldn't remember what the command meant. Then he shook himself and went to the tactical display. "Hyperdrive is fully operational, Captain. Hull integrity down to 78% with impact damage on decks eight through twenty-seven on the forward starboard side. Life-support is operation and no further breaches are reported. No reports from medical yet on any casualties."

"Well, they've hardly had time," Rurik said. "And it's acting captain. I'm just in charge until we get somewhere for repairs and to report to fleet command, whomever that is at the moment. Assuming we don't burn the hyperdrive out as soon as we revert to realspace. Navigation, calculate our options for Imperial-controlled repair facilities. On this vector that's probably Bilbringi, but I want options in case we can't get that far. Command Sosabow, begin compiling the data recordings of that . . . encounter. Holos, flight recorders, ship's system logs, everything. I doubt whoever's running things this month will care enough to do anything about it, but we're coming back with a dead bridge crew and I've run into those ships before. I want everything documented just in case this time someone cares and so whomever they draft as the next captain will know what happened to the old one."

"Yes, Cap–Acting Captain," Sosabow said, then paused. "That'll be our fourth, sir."

"Fourth what?" Ruirk tugged his flight gloves off, and after a moment's pause, started unstrapping the life-support harness he was still wearing. He could change into gray blouse later, once the reports were compiled, but until now he hadn't even realized he still had the heavy vest and gloves on, let alone worried about appropriate bridge attire.

"Our fourth captain since Endor, sir. Not including you, or my ten minutes before you got here." Sosabow had an expression somewhere between a smile and a grimace. "We've been something of a hard-luck ship."

Rurik knew his own smile was mirthless. "At this point, what ship in the Imperial Navy isn't, Commander?" He looked around, and felt an odd sort of pride at how most of the crew were slowly starting to relax into their stations again, tasks assigned and something to focus on again. A few glanced up at him, and their shoulders straightened to a more proper, disciplined posture. Because their Captain– _acting_ captain, he thought firmly–was watching. "You thought you were a hard-luck ship before," he murmured. "If you're looking at me for leadership, the Navy really is in desperate shape."

"Pardon, sir?" Sosabow looked up from the computer terminal he was tapping at, trying to call up the tactical holos.

"Oh, nothing," Rurik said, tucking his gloves into his belt. "Just thinking out loud, Commander." _About this ship, and who should be here instead of me. But at least we're still the Imperial Navy, Thelea, and this kind of thing still doesn't happen to us._ Then he turned back to the command display and watched as the navicomputer counted down to reversion.


	2. Duty and Honor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Remember, reviews are love! (And probably helpful with searches, too.) This is the end of this short, to be followed by "Shadow Dancing", where we'll see how Thelea's been occupying her time while Rurik thinks she's dead.

 

 

The shipyards at Bilbringi were busier than Rurik remembered seeing them in recent years. Not only were there the usual cruisers and frigates, being patched together again with engine tape and wishful thinking to a level that would have been unimaginable in the old days of the Empire when resources seemed limitless, there were also more than usual number of Star Destroyers, Imperial- and Imperial II-class as well as the smaller, older Victories, and strangest of all many did not seem to be in for battle repairs or futile attempts to stave off aging. The ships were being refitted, and by all appearances brought back up to full Imperial battle standards.

_Defiance_ had caused a miniature storm of activity when she limped into the system. Battle damage on that scale for an Imperial-class Destroyer was still noteworthy, even in this day when losses were increasingly more common than victories. More unusual still was a ship with her entire senior bridge crew wiped out, but her fighter component mostly intact and the rest of her crew largely alive and uninjured. Rurik had found himself whisked to the commandant of the shipyards as soon as _Defiance_ was secured in a repair dock, and he spent what he was quite certain was at least seventy-two hours, with little or no sleep, repeating his story to an increasingly-varied series of officers, including at least one with no rank plates whom he was fairly certain was ISB. Some of the questions from the latter interrogators sounded suspiciously as if Sosabow and possibly Zeth were also being interrogated somewhere. After the second, though he was sure long-overdue, rest break, he was also quite certain that his questioners had seen the reports and battle-cam footage he'd surrendered upon arrival.

The tone of the questioning implied that they didn't entirely believe him, but considering the damage _Defiance_ had sustained, they had to admit that _something_ had happened. But Rurik also had the odd sense that they were waiting for something, or someone, especially since all his questions about who precisely was in command of the Fleet to receive his report were met with evasions, skeptical looks, or outright ignored.

At least they were willing to keep him updated on the progress repairing _Defiance._ Other than the extensive damage to the main bridge, she was actually not in as poor condition as she might have been. The crew was enjoying, for certain limited definitions of the term, leave at what passed for the shipyard's base. If nothing else, it was a chance to mingle with the crews of the other ships and pick up news, rumors, brief liaisons for those so inclined, anything to find out what was going on elsewhere in the Fleet. For Rurik, though, the best relief after the last question session ended was being permitted to crash in a bunk for a blissfully-unlimited number of hours. The fact he was still being addressed as "Captain" was annoying, but could wait.

It took about five hours for guilt to kick in and override exhaustion, and he picked up the datapad that had been left on his bunk. They were, a preliminary scan of the repair orders informed him, likely to be at least four weeks in the repair yards, possibly longer. The repairs to the main bridge and related systems was the greatest part of it, as even with the apparent new enthusiasm in the dockyards certain computer components were still at a premium. _Defiance_ had such extensive damage, even if she were given priority for repairs it would take considerable time to make sure she was spaceworthy again. At the moment, the only orders he had were to remain at the repair yard base and be prepared at any time to report for questioning.

It did not entirely surprise him that his comlink had been confiscated, and the small quarters assigned him had no communications equipment for him to access, either.

It was probably the exhaustion, but mercifully, he did not dream after sinking back down for another few uncounted hours of sleep. Hunger dragged him back to consciousness this time, and he found he was at least at liberty to go in search of a mess hall or canteen. The food on the station was the usual bland rations, unidentifiable proteins and sticky starches, but at least the caf was drinkable. What would happen, Rurik wondered as he nursed a second cup, when _that_ supply line was cut off? It was entirely possible the whole Imperial Navy would surrender out of sheer desperation.

"Captain Caelin?"

" _Acting_ Captain," he corrected automatically before turning around. The young lieutenant, uniform so crisp it probably still reeked of the quartermaster's office that had issued it, was standing at parade-ground attention. "Is my presence required in the commander's office again?" He knew he was being more than slightly cavalier, but considering the shards any remaining career he'd had were likely in, respect seemed like a tall order.

"No, sir," and the lieutenant ignored the correction about his rank. "The _Chimaera_ has just arrived in-system and the Supreme Commander has requested your presence."

"The Supreme Commander?" He knew the _Chimaera_ , of course, another Death Squadron survivor and the secondary command ship who'd ordered the retreat at Endor. Either her captain (Pellas? Pell-something) was getting very high-handed, or whatever warlord had crawled out of the cesspit that was the remainder of the Core these days had picked that Destroyer as the new target for the Republic's pathological campaigns against whomever was trying to run the Empire at the moment.

The lieutenant nodded crisply. "Yes, sir."

Clearly, this one was still a true believer. It was almost cute. "Does this Supreme Commander have a name?"

"Yes, sir," and Rurik almost slapped him. "I am not instructed to tell you his name. I am under orders to escort you to the _Chimaera._ "

"I'm supposed to go there?" That was unconventional. Unless, of course, this was not a request or even normal orders. "Am I under arrest?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir." If there were still a functional academy somewhere worthy of the name, this one had to be the top of his class. Even Giriad had never been so textbook-perfect.

_Stop thinking about them already._ "Very well." He gave his uniform tunic a perfunctory tug and checked that his rank plates were neatly level. "I might as well meet whatever warlord is running things this week. Not that it'll matter if he doesn't believe my report."

The lieutenant flinched, the first inappropriately-human reaction he'd shown so far. But he only said, "Yes, Captain," and gestured for Rurik to precede him out of the canteen.

The shuttle ride from the repair base to the _Chimaera_ was brief and eerily silent. There were no stormtroopers, so Ruirk knew the lieutenant had not been misinformed-he did not appear to be under arrest. Despite the short hop of a journey, the pilot and co-pilot went through an extremely precise and textbook-correct docking and landing procedure. Maybe the new Supreme Commander was some Academy instructor with delusions of grandeur.

As he came down the ramp into the _Chimaera'_ s docking bay, he began to wonder about that. Even in a non-combat situation, deep in Imperial territory, the crew was moving with a brisk efficiency that was almost eerie. No slacking, not a shuttle or TIE out of place, no one lingering where they shouldn't be, but the atmosphere wasn't one of fear or mindless, new-recruit enthusiasm. It took Rurik a moment to put his finger on exactly what the feeling of the ship was, and then it clicked: _pride._ The crew of the _Chimaera_ took an enormous amount of pride in their ship and their jobs. Rurik couldn't remember the last time he'd felt any atmosphere like it aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer, not until he thought back years, to the day he, Thelea, and Giriad had arrived for their new assignment on the _Executor._ The Lady Ex had been the pride of the Fleet, the assignment granted to the best and the brightest.

Apparently, the Fleet had a new ship in that role.

The person waiting for him near the turbolift bay surprised him enough to distract him from that line of thought. The man was a sturdily-built officer of middle age with graying hair and a fine mustache, and he wore a uniform nearly as neatly-pressed as the young lieutenant's with a full captain's rank plate over his heart. He also, Rurik noted, had his sidearm, something that generally was considered excessive even in the heyday of the Rebellion.

The young lieutenant came to a stop and offered a nearly-textbook salute. "Returning as ordered, Captain Pellaeon, with Captain Caelin of the _Defiance._ "

"Acting Captain," Ruri murmured, and felt himself flinch at the look that earned him. He straightened to the best imitation he could manage of attention these days and saluted. "Captain Pellaeon. Permission to come aboard, sir." Even if he accepted the rank temporarily, Pellaeon appeared to be commanding the Fleet flagship, meaning even without the seniority of age he would still have outranked Rurik.

"Granted, Captain Caelin," and the accent was just faintly middling–Core with a blush of Corellia, Rurik thought, the voice of a man who'd spent his life in ships. "The Grand Admiral has reviewed your report on the incident in System V-2734. He is anxious to discuss the particulars of this encounter and your . . .unorthodox assumption of command of the _Defiance_."

"I was the remaining senior officer at the time, Captain Pellaeon." Incident? Wonderful. Whomever this new commander was (a _Grand_ Admiral? Really? If any of them were left, one would have thought he'd have reappeared before now) sounded as if he was going to give it exactly as much attention as everyone before did to any reports of anomalies and mystery ships, which was to say almost none. Likely Rurik would be lucky to keep his actual Colonel's rank and position in starfighter command. "At the time, my taking command seemed better than losing the ship and remaining crew."

"And we cannot afford to lose a Star Destroyer, let alone her crew." To his minor surprise, Pellaeon sounded sincere, not didactic or condescending. Even sarcasm would have been more typical for the shell of itself the Navy had become than genuine sincerity. "Hence the Admiral's interest. He also says that he's anxious to meet you again."

"Again?" Now Rurik was genuinely confused. He had never, to the best of his recollection, ever met one of the Emperor's white-uniformed elite commanders. "Did he say when we'd met?"

"He did not." Pellaeon did not sound irritated at the question. If anything he seemed faintly amused. "I expect you'll remember when you see him again."

Rurik gave up on asking questions. Clearly the new Admiral (he'd believe it was a real Grand Admiral when he saw the man) enjoyed surprises, suggesting another self-promoted sadist with delusions of Empire. Of course, it didn't matter for him. One death or another, they all lead to the same place. If this new Supreme Commander was a madman, that would most likely hasten the process along. He felt a small twinge of guilt at the thought of the _Defiance_ and her crew being given over into the hands of the kind of captain that sort of admiral would choose, but he shoved it aside. Pellaeon did not, on cursory inspection, seem like a lunatic. There were no doubt many such commanders available now that Star Destroyers weren't going spare.

They came to an unremarkable door somewhere near the _Chimaera_ 's bow. Not the bridge, then. This area on most ships was quarters reserved for officers, guest suites for VIPs, and when the ship served as a flagship, often entertainment or other private sorts of rooms for whomever the commander was. Rurik bit down a sudden surge of nerves and couldn't help glancing at Pellaeon's sidearm, wishing he'd worn one himself. Pellaeon paused and before he could speak the door slid open.

"Brace yourself," the senior captain muttered, and Rurik wondered what he meant. They stepped in to a dark antechamber, and abruptly Rurik had an odd sense of deja vu. There was something familiar about this, even as the door closed behind them but the inner door did not open. Pellaeon, a slight twist to his lip, started to say "Captain Pellaeon and Captain Caelin to see Grand Admiral–"

Rurik _felt_ the brush of movement behind them and whirled around. A dark-cloaked figure, perhaps two-thirds his height with bulging dark eyes and a predator's snout, moved with surprising fluidity out of the shadows, something silver flickering in his hand. "Captain Pellaeon," it growled, and the nostrils twitched, "and _you._ It has been a long time. You were with _her_."

Abruptly, Rurik knew. The command room on the _Victorious_ , the same gravelly-voiced creature lurking in the shadows and using the same stealth appearance to startle Rurik and Thelea, when they had gone AWOL from their own ship to seek help from . . . .

"Thrawn," and it came out without his realizing it until he saw the sharp look from Pellaeon. "It's Thrawn, isn't it?" And somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Jasha Muro, back when he'd been merely a guest on the _Defiance_ after the ship came to Telamara's rescue, mentioning _Grand_ Admiral Thrawn, but the ship had been through three captains since, lost so many crew, and he had forgotten that one passing remark and no one above him had cared. He hadn't mentioned Thrawn to Thelea, either–especially after that bizarre encounter with the ex-Jedi who called herself Aleishia, Thelea had seemed oddly reticent about everything she'd been told about her own past. What had she said? That if the full name Aleishia had told her was correct, Thrawn had lied to her. She'd never been willing to speak further about it, but even that cool, contained facade she had (almost) always maintained couldn't hide that she had been . . .upset.

And of course, when Aleishia had abandoned them on Telamara, Thelea had not contained her anger, at the Jedi, or at Thrawn. And Rurik had been the one she'd turned to for comfort. Maybe just because he was there, but then, what about later? When they'd talked about desertion? When she'd been the one who'd held him in the embrace and deepened it?

_We should have run then. We should have just gone._

Pellaeon was still staring at him. "I see you do remember meeting him."

"He's a hard man to forget." Rurik ground his teeth. "He really is a Grand Admiral?"

Before Pellaeon could reply, a cool, modulated, and very familiar voice from a speaker above the inner door said, "See for yourself, Captain Caelin. Let them in, Rukh."

The alien bodyguard sniffed again, and vanished into the shadowed alcove he must have come from. The inner door slid open, and Pellaeon stepped through, clearly expecting Rurik to follow him. For a moment, he considered simply walking away, but given the creature hiding in the shadows that seemed unwise. Giving his tunic a habitual straightening tug, he followed the captain into the inner chamber.

The room was surprisingly spacious, and notably bare. There were tactical computer banks set in the walls, likely duplicates of the command stations on the main bridge, and somewhere in the floors and ceiling there had to be holoprojectors, as the center of the room was running a battle reconstruction drawn from the fighter- and ship's-cam holos Rurik had included in his report. It showed the battered _Defiance_ making the desperate, last-ditch escape run from a ship that seemed to waver in and out of the cam's ability to record. Rurik watched as the tractor beam swung the asteroid into the dark mass's path and felt, again, a thrill of vengeful satisfaction as the enemy ship's bow crumpled in a burst of blinding white energy. The small holo of the _Defiance,_ meanwhile, was pitching up, and then the holo flared and vanished as the ship disappeared into hyperspace, taking the data recorders and cams creating the image with it.

Beyond the holo was a command chair, as might be found on the bridge of any flagship in the Fleet. Seated in that chair, the white uniform luminous in the darkness, was Grand Admiral Thrawn. Rurik stopped a pace behind Pellaeon and saw how the other steeled himself before meeting those eyes. The pale blue skin, blue-black hair, and the glowing red eyes held no terror for him, though, and Rurik met the Admiral's piercing gaze without blinking. He thought, though he couldn't be sure, he saw just the tiniest twitch of surprise at that, but if Thelea had been adept at keeping her expression impassive, Thrawn was a master of it, and he only inclined his head slightly. In that moment, somehow, Rurik knew that long-ago rumor from Jasha was true, and the stories of disgraced banishment were false. One thing he knew for certain–Thrawn was no self-promoted would-be warlord. If anything, he made the known Grand Admirals seem like posturing frauds merely by how he wore the white like a second skin.

"Admiral Thrawn, Captain Caelin of the _Defiance_ has arrived, as you requested," Pellaeon said crisply, and Rurik now understood the strange atmosphere of the _Chimaera_ : for the first time since Endor, possibly even longer, they had a commander who inspired confidence and demanded proper discipline.

Well, Rurik had never been entirely good at discipline.

"So I see," and the voice was still the same, perfectly even, flawless Coruscanti accent, and the level gaze fixed on him. "Thank you for responding so promptly, Captain Caelin."

"Acting Captain. Sir."

Pellaeon visibly flinched, and Rurik saw the other man's frown, but he didn't apologize for the tone or daring to correct the Grand Admiral. Thrawn, for his part, merely studied Rurik for a long moment, eyes narrowed. "We shall see about that. Your strategy on taking command of the _Defiance_ was innovative, Captain. You took what many would have considered an unsurvivable scenario against an unknown enemy and instead of attempting to abandon ship or flee in a disorganized manner, you found an unconventional method of disabling the enemy, possibly destroying them, and overcame several unexpected difficulties in jumping to hyperspace. All this, despite having spent the entirety of your career refusing promotional transfer from starfighter command to capital-ship officer. And the deck officer and Major Orono's reports indicate you gave evacuation preparation orders showing great forethought, including use of shuttles and other small craft with greater survivability than escape pods. Yet you express no desire to continue in command of the _Defiance_ when her repairs are complete? It would be an entirely reasonable request and in keeping with Fleet regulations."

"That is correct, Admiral." He knew his tone was one step to the right of insubordination, but this was beyond absurd, beyond his indifference and death wish. "I am not suited to being a capital-ship captain. My only desire is to return to my squadron and continue as a pilot. And if I may, Admiral, you are incorrect. The ship which attacked us is not unknown. At least not to me. I have encountered them twice before, and I used knowledge gleaned in those engagements to assist my decision-making."

Thrawn's eyes narrowed, and Rurik had the eerie feeling this was the real reason he'd been summoned. "What were those occasions?"

"When I was assigned to the 207th Interceptor Assault Squadron attached to the _Executor_ , my wing was assigned escort duty for a freighter, the _Aris Val_. We were dragged out of hyperspace and my wingleader ordered our fighters to launch." He watched, but there was no indication Thrawn recognized anything significant about that. "The ship was similar to the one the _Defiance_ encountered. They also briefly jammed our transmissions to the freighter while leaving the squadron frequency open. This ship did the same thing. The freighter was destroyed, but our wingleader was able to guide us to a safe landing on a nearby moon and we obtained passage offworld. The nearest Imperial outpost, Telamara, was under a blockade by similar ships. We got our wingman, Lieutenant Quoris, past the blockade to call for help while our wingleader and I flew interference, then remained behind to assist in the ground defense of the planet. As such, I had sufficient prior experience to make informed decisions about tactics in this situation. That is all."

"All, indeed." Thrawn steepled his fingers, the glowing eyes regarding Rurik over them, and Rurik had an eerie memory of Thelea, seated in the same position in the command room on Telamara, pondering their means of escape. "You mention your wingleader in these situations three separate times. She was of special import in these scenarios?"

Rurik didn't know which he hated more, the condescension or the fact that Thrawn had to know he was aware of it and did it anyway. "It was Commander Thelea, sir, and she was of special import in every scenario. But since you said 'she', you knew that already, didn't you? I can't imagine you've forgotten her."

He could see out of the corner of his eye that poor Captain Pellaeon was torn between righteous indignation at Rurik's foray into full-blown insubordination and confusion at the sudden turn the conversation had taken. But the older captain was far too professional to say anything outright.

Thrawn merely stared at Rurik for a long moment, the only sound in the room the distant faint hum of the _Chimaera's_ sublight engines. Finally, he said, "Thank you, Captain Pellaeon, you may return to your duties. If Captain Caelin requires an escort back to the shuttle bay, I will call for one."

Rurik wondered exactly what the uncertain part of his needing an escort was. Was the assumption that he could find his way back without a guide? Or that he would not be returning at all?

"Yes, Admiral," Pellaeon said, clearly looking displeased. With another disapproving glare at Rurik, who was clearly planted in young-whippersnapper-with-no-respect territory in his mind, the other turned on his heel and departed.

Rurik didn't turn or give any indication he noticed the Captain's departure. His eyes were fixed on the Grand Admiral, daring him to flinch first. That would never happen, but he was _not_ going to break down now. There was no reason. Nothing Thrawn could do to him could matter. His _in_ action years ago had already cost Rurik the person he'd realized, too late, meant more to him than anyone else in the galaxy. And if what Thelea had said, in that exhaustion-fueled breakdown on Telamara, was true, then before he had left her to her own devices in the political rancor pit that was Death Squadron, he'd lied to her as well. Rurik owed him nothing.

So why was he still standing at attention and waiting for Thrawn to make the first move?

Which the Grand Admiral finally did. "You seem to hold a great deal of personal hostility towards me, Captain Caelin. I can't seem to recall a reason why."

Something in Rurik's mind snapped. "I can recall quite a few. And they all involve Th-Commander Thelea. Sir. You were, she had informed us, the only other member of her species in Imperial service. First you ignored her, then you lied to her, and then you abandoned her. I would find it hard to forgive you for any one of those things. All three?" He grimaced. "Thelea deserved better."

For one fleeting instant, he saw Thrawn look away. Then the glittering eyes were fixed back on him. "Indeed. She told you this?"

"She told me . . . ." Rurik paused. He wouldn't have thought he would forget a word of his conversations with Thelea, least of all when they were alone on Telamara, the first of only two times he'd ever had both the nerve and the opportunity to kiss her. But now . . . . "She said if what the–the human woman who'd helped us said was true, then you'd lied. And Ale-that woman had left her, and _you_ had left her, and if anyone else left her she'd lose her mind."

He closed his eyes. _Everyone leaves me. Promise me you won't leave me. Promise!_

"I promised her I wouldn't . . . then I did." He didn't even realize he was speaking out loud. "We lost Gir, then we got separated, and I was trying to get back to her, then she was gone. I promised and I couldn't even do that." He opened his eyes, and Thrawn hadn't moved, hadn't even changed expression. "I guess that makes me no better than you. Either way, she's still dead, and I am already overdue joining her, so no. I don't want permanent command of the _Defiance._ I just want to get back in my fighter and finally be a really good TIE pilot and get myself blown to bits by some Rebel or some pirate."

Thrawn was silent for a long moment, and then, finally, he said, "No, you don't."

"What." It wasn't even a question.

"No, you don't want to die," Thrawn said, in a tone so placid he might as well have been discussing the weather on Ithor. "You were a fighter pilot for eight years, long after most have died or moved on to the safer commands to which survivors of pilot duty are entitled. Commander Thelea has been gone four of those years. If you truly wished to die, you could have chosen any one of a thousand ways before now."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me I knew, subconsciously, I had some greater purpose and that's why I never pulled the trigger," Rurik said. He'd abandoned any pretense of respectful subordination.

Thrawn's lip twisted. "Hardly. What you have, Captain, is a sense of duty. Let us assume you are correct in the face of all evidence and you do in fact have a death wish. Your squadron, reduced by four, barely makes it into the hangar. You are informed that the main bridge has been vented, the senior command crew are most likely dead, leaving helm and weapons in the hands of the secondary bridge and vastly less-experienced crew. Your ship is damaged, and you know from experience, experience no one else on the ship possesses, that the only means of survival against this particular enemy is escape. What does a man who sincerely wishes only to die do in that situation?"

Rurik opened his mouth to say 'exactly what I did', and thought better of it at the last second. "I suppose a selfish man who wanted to die would just sit and wait for the end. But that's not the scenario. I wasn't the only one aboard. An Imperial-class Destroyer has thirty to forty thousand people, give or take. The conscripted ones didn't even ask to be there. No officer, no matter how much he might personally crave an ending to a pointless existence, is going to stand by and let that many people die with him. Not if he can do something about it. Me in my fighter, that's one minor loss of Imperial equipment. _Defiance_ has thousands of people aboard and trillions of credits in equipment and supplies. I may not care about my own life, but I don't want to take all of that with me. If for no other reason than if there's an afterlife Thelea would never let me hear the end of it. _She_ nearly died trying to save a planet full of people she'd never seen before. I couldn't do any less for my own ship and crew."

Thrawn didn't reply for a moment, the glowing eyes gazing contemplatively at him for a long time. "Commander Thelea's good opinion matters a great deal to you."

The present tense was almost too much for him to take. "Commander Thelea means a great deal to me. That's why, if it's all the same to you, find some other officer desperate for a command and let me get back to killing myself. Quickly or slowly, it'll happen eventually. She's _everything_ to me, and I didn't figure it out until it was too late, so I don't-" He caught himself, but then forced the last out, "I don't deserve any better. And _Defiance_ and her crew deserve better than me."

One blue-black eyebrow arched, and Rurik shivered at how much the expression reminded him of Thelea. It was, he'd thought, a particular tic of hers, the same way she had sometimes watched someone, her head inclined just a bit so it didn't seem as if she were staring directly at them, even though she absolutely was.

Just the way Thrawn was doing now.

A terrible, dark, horrifying suspicion began to work its way up through Rurik's brain.

" _Is he a relative of yours?"_

_Thelea rounded on him, her arm catching him across the chest. "If you had any idea what you just said–"_

"I am sorry, Captain Caelin," Thrawn was saying. "I am afraid that while I sympathize with your grief, disproportionate though it might be, the Empire simply cannot afford to lose a better-than-average command officer simply because he believes he wishes to wallow in self-pity. Especially one who has more experience than almost any other officer in the Fleet confronting the dark ships. And it may interest you to know that since you arrived at Bilbringi, Fleet Command has received no fewer than thirty-seven individual and four departmental reports from the _Defiance_ , including from Lieutenant Commander Sosabow and Major Orono, all praising your actions and requesting that your acting promotion be made permanent."

"Zeth just wants that squadron for himself," Rurik muttered, but it was half-hearted. "And he deserves it. Probably more than me. All I've done is volunteer us all for suicide missions." But Sosabow? Gratitude, for lifting responsibility from his shoulders, being a senior officer to whom command responsibility in battle could pass, for . . . for Rurik's tactics and quick thinking saving all their lives. All right. Fair enough. But not enough to make him take the responsibility permanently.

He looked back at Thrawn, who was still watching with that slight, almost imperceptible twist to his lip that gave his expression a faint ghost of disdain. "And what do you mean disproportionate?"

"Command Thelea was your commanding officer and immediate superior," Thrawn said flatly. Did Rurik imagine it, or was there a new undertone of anger or annoyance? "While friendship between such lower rates is tolerated, romantic relationships are not, and Commander Thelea was an excellent officer. Whatever delusional infatuation you might have harbored regarding her, I can only assume because of our exotic appearance to your species, she undoubtedly did not return those feelings."

Rurik choked down the urge to scream. "With all due respect, sir," and Zeth had been on to something, that was a brilliant way to say kriff you to a superior officer, "you are absolute right about Thelea being an excellent officer. She was the best, and she deserved better than you or the Navy gave her. But you are dead wrong about everything else. I don't have any delusions that anything ever could have happened, because she was such a good officer, but I also don't believe that she didn't want something to come of it if it could have. Because I know she did, in her own way." There was a flicker across that icy mask and glowing eyes, real anger, he thought. Good. "And it wasn't because she was exotic, alien, or beautiful, even though she was all of those. I love her because she was the smartest, bravest, most incredible woman I ever met. I love her, and she's dead, and there's nothing I can do to change that, but I won't listen to even a Grand Admiral say I was just another Imp with a perverse interest in alien girls. Not good enough for her? Sure. I don't know anyone I'd think was good enough for her. But I still love her even if I don't deserve to."

There was a long pause, but for once Rurik didn't think Thrawn was trying to make him nervous or to analyze what he'd said. Instead, the Grand Admiral was trying to control his temper. Finally, he said, slowly, "Perhaps it is my grasp of Basic at fault," though his tone suggested if Rurik were smart, he would not agree, "but you refer to love in the present tense. Surely, in the circumstances, you mean 'loved.' Past tense."

"No, sir," he said, feeling some of the anger drain away. "I love her. Her being dead doesn't change that. I love her, and I lost her, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting everything we might have had, if I'd just . . .if I'd stayed on her wing, if I'd been where I should have. Either she'd be alive, or I'd be dead instead of her, either way, I win. So you'll excuse me, I used the correct word. I love her, present tense. And I'd prefer to get back to trying to join her. And that makes me very bad person to be responsible for nearly forty thousand lives."

There was another long pause, contemplative now. Yet again Rurik was grateful to Thelea for training him without knowing she was doing it to meet that glowing regard without so much as flinching. Thrawn was tapping one finger idly on the arm of his chair, and finally, he tapped out a code on the controls set there and rose.

The holo that glowed to life from the floor projectors had an odd, flat, slightly discolored quality and it flickered a bit, as if it were converted from a two-d format or taken from a non-Imperial system. Given the woman depicted in the head-and-shoulders portrait was both alien (Chiss, he dredged out of memory, that was their name for themselves) and wearing clothes of a style he'd never seen, he suspected it had been transferred from a system very alien to the Empire indeed. If Thelea had been pretty and striking, this woman was stunningly beautiful, with fine elegant features, a proud mouth, high forehead, and eyes of a shape and angle that seemed familiar beyond the ruby glow. Her cobalt hair was pinned up in a soft, elegant style, held in place with long sticklike pins. It was the necklace she wore that caught his attention, though–a medallion, a filigree of silver metal with a glittering stone at the center that even in the distorted color of the holo changed colors as he moved for a better look.

He'd seen that necklace before. Thrawn had showed it to Thelea, asked her if she'd remembered it, and she had. Someone holding her when she was small, he thought she'd said, someone whose face she hadn't remembered.

"This," Thrawn said, in a tone so quiet he almost didn't sound like himself, "is Lady Reli'set'harana. She died when Thelea was very young." He wasn't looking at Rurik now. He was staring at the holo, and while nothing noticeable in his expression had changed, a tension seemed to grip his entire body. "She died for two reasons: first, because of the same creatures that attacked your homeworld, and which you outmaneuvered saving the _Defiance_. And second . . . ." He paused, and if it had been anyone else, even Vader back from the dead, Rurik would have sworn he was struggling to steel himself. "Second, she died because I did not do everything I thought I could have to protect her. I wasn't there. In many ways, that isn't correct. It was her choices, not mine, that placed her where she was. It was the dark ones that killed her. But even though I am fully aware of that, I cannot help thinking there was something else I could have done. There was not. Do you understand?"

"That there was nothing I could have done to save Thelea, either." He stared at the holo, not daring to look at Thrawn. "Sir, I have been hearing that from people for four years. Zeth-Major Orono–said as much when we were still in the infirmary after the battle of Endor. I know that. But so far, knowing doesn't help."

"It does not." Thrawn hadn't turned from the image, and Rurik could have sworn he was punishing himself, forcing himself to look. "Duty helps, Captain. I have a duty to the Empire, to my own people, to–many beings. Duty gives purpose, even when our losses are such we think . . . ." He stopped himself, and looked at Rurik. "How long do you plan to go on mourning Commander Thelea?"

Rurik couldn't stop himself. "I don't know, sir. How long before you stopped mourning for her mother?"

Thrawn blinked and Rurik had the dubious pleasure of seeing a Grand Admiral at a loss, if only for an instant. "I do not believe," he said, and to Rurik's minor astonishment, he was evading the question completely, "that you truly wish to die. Especially not now, knowing that there is a ship's crew who trusts you to lead them, and an enemy that has already attacked your home and threatens everyone else. You have a duty to all of them. _I_ require captains in my fleet who take that duty seriously. Especially given the enemy that is coming, and all the others that await the Empire in what you call the Unknown Regions."

In spite of himself, Rurik blanched. "Others, sir?" Others, like the dark ships? _Worse_ than the dark ships?

"Many." Thrawn seemed to have regained some equilibrium, but Ruirk noted those glittering eyes kept returning to the holo almost hungrily. "The Empire could have been a bulwark against them all, especially with the territories that have been added in areas as yet unfamiliar to most of you from the Core. Instead, we have been embroiled in a pointless, wasteful war of insurrection, with soldiers and resources on both sides lost. That will end," and somehow, more than all the propaganda that he had heard since the day he set foot in the Academy, that sounded convincing, "but while I am occupied with that task, I still require ships and crews here in the Rim and Wild Space who are prepared to face what is coming while the main fleet is occupied quelling this rebellion. You know the enemy. Your crew, thanks to your . . . unconventional thinking . . . knows that they can be defeated. And, tell me, Captain Caelin: if not you, into whose keeping should I give the _Defiance_? Which captain waiting for a command would you trust with your life and all the crew's?"

And Rurik knew he'd lost. Or won. He wasn't sure, and that was the strangest part. He thought about Zeth, his surviving pilots, Jasha and the other medics, Commander Sosabow, the ashen but relieved faces of the secondary bridge crew. "To be honest, sir," and that 'sir' felt a great deal more natural, "if that's the case . . . I'm not sure there's anyone I would trust more than myself."

Thrawn's smile was not pleasant, or reassuring, but it was definitely triumphant. "Excellent," he said, settling back into his command chair. "Then you'll wish to report back to the spacedock to oversee your ship's repairs as soon as possible, Captain Caelin." And he glanced down. "And replace those rank squares with the correct ones. The quartermaster on station will have the orders by the time you get there."

"One moment, sir," and Rurik wasn't sure where the nerve came from, but he though, _What would Thelea have done in my shoes?_ "I do have conditions."

Now both brows arched so high he was amazed they didn't reach the Admiral's hairline. "Conditions?" Thrawn repeated darkly.

"If the _Defiance_ is going to be patrolling the edge of Wild Space, with what we've just faced, I am not going in unprepared, Admiral," Ruirk said, feeling his confidence grow. It was the strangest feeling, but he had the sense that at this moment, what he asked for, Thrawn would cede him. "First: I want Lieutenant Commander Sosabow promoted to Commander and named my first officer, and Major Orono promoted to Colonel and made squadron commander in my place." Thrawn clearly was thinking that over quickly, and he inclined his head affirmatively. "Second: _Defiance_ doesn't just get repaired. She gets a complete systems overhaul and a full weapons upgrade. She needs everything brought up as close to par with a Mark II Destroyer as can be made on a Mark I. Third: I get at least two Victory-class Destroyers with us. We aren't taking another of those ships alone."

"Will the _Resolute_ with Captain Odbior and the _Endeavour_ with Captain Nyquist be acceptable?" There was a drollness to Thrawn's tone, but the fact he hadn't even paused said he'd already been intending to do just that.

"Perfectly, sir." _What had Gir liked to say? "In for a deci, in for a credit?"_ "And one more thing. I want a TIE Defender. An Advanced will do if that's all that can be found, but a Defender would be best."

"Captain Caelin–" Now the Grand Admiral sounded less than amused.

"If we get a clear shot at another base, or better yet a home base, I want a fighter available that's a bit more resilient than standard Interceptors and more maneuverable than a missile boat." And if he just happened to sometimes take it out for an inspection flight, well . . . Captain's prerogative.

"I will see what can be arranged," Thrawn said, in a tone that unmistakably said Rurik should not push his luck much further.

"Thank you, Admiral." Rurik let his attention return to the holo. "And . . . if it's not out of turn to say so . . . I'm very sorry, sir. Lady . . . ." and he ran back through the name, sorting the bits. "Lady Lisetha-is that right? She was very beautiful."

Thrawn once again seemed faintly nonplused. "Yes, she was," he murmured, then said, louder, "Lisetha is her correct core name." He paused. "Commander Thelea taught you something of our names."

"A little. Her name seemed very important to her, the whole name, I mean. I could never pronounce it." She'd been so happy when she'd thought Thrawn had told her, then so shattered when Aleishia had said it was . . . something else, something longer, complicated . . . .

"Mitth'ele'arana," Thrawn said, making Rurik jump. "Thelea's full name. Had I told her, she would have drawn . . . conclusions she was not prepared at the time to reach. My full name, you see, is Mitth'raw'nuruodo. She knew that."

Rurik only nodded. It was, he suspected, as close as Thrawn would come to saying the obvious out loud, and he didn't have to. The way he looked at the holo said everything about who Lisetha, and her daughter, had been to him.

"Believe me," and Thrawn was staring at his wife's image, face a perfect, expressionless mask, "it was not out of any desire to hurt her."

"You were trying to protect her." Saying it out loud was almost as hard as admitting it, and letting go the last of the anger on her behalf. "I understand the impulse, sir."

Thrawn gazed evenly at him. "Yes," he said finally, "I believe you do." He turned his attention back to the holo. "Dismissed, Captain." Rurik saluted, and turned properly on his heel. He was halfway to the command room door when Thrawn said, "Captain?"

Rurik turned again, mid-stride. "Yes, Admiral?"

There was a slight pause. "When I have the answer to your earlier question, about Thelea's mother, I will tell you."

_When you finally stop grieving for her and know how long it took, you mean._ "Yes, Admiral," was all he said, and continued out the door. The _Defiance_ , and the future, was waiting for him.

Standing on the gantry high above the _Chimaera'_ s docking-bay floor, the shadows and the shadow scout standing among them blended to near invisibility. Or would have, except her discarded helmet meant Thelea's eyes would have been a dead giveaway, if Rurik had looked up into the darkness as he walked towards the Lambda-class shuttle's ramp. She was not supposed to take the helmet off outside her quarters or Thrawn's personal suite aboard the _Chimaera-_ even Pellaeon didn't know she was here. But she had to see Rurik, really see him, not just hear through the comm system, not view him filtered through the helmet's internal HUD. Part of her wished he would turn, feel her gaze, look up and see her and take the choice away. Instead, while he paused and looked around, his eyes didn't turn upwards to the highest levels of the docking gantries, and so he vanished into the ship without seeing any hint of her.

_As it should be_ , Thelea thought, wishing that didn't prompt a painful, clenching knot in her chest, a burning need to shout after him as the ramp closed, to rush down there, tell him everything she'd overheard him say was wrong, she was alive, she was here, she wanted nothing more than to never let him go again . . . .

"Second thoughts, apprentice?"

Master Aleishia had materialized out of the shadows with that Jedi stealth Thelea still had not quite acquired. She had not been privy to the Grand Admiral's conversation with Rurik, but Thelea had, standing just inside the private entrance from her father's quarters to the command room, hearing every word and worse now, feeling the agonizing truth of them in the Force. Rurik's rage at Thrawn on her behalf had been almost as breathtaking as the grief he had still felt, grief that had rivaled her father's agony when he brought out the holo of Mother. Ever fiber in her being had screamed at her to open the door, end the charade, promise him anything if it would make that anger and sorrow go away.

Every fiber but one: the one that had spent the last four years being hammered into a Jedi's weapon, a Grand Admiral's weapon, a force to stand against the dark ones by herself if necessary. That one had known this for the trial it was, and had held her.

"No, Master," she sighed. Below, the shuttle was clearing the magnetic field and moving away from the _Chimaera_ , taking Rurik away again. "You win, Father wins like he almost always does. A Jedi knows no passion. I chose duty, Rurik gets a ship as a consolation prize. Everybody wins."

"Wrong lesson, apprentice." But Aleishia was smiling. "Tell me . . . what is your heart telling you to do now?"

Thelea debated lying, and knew it was as pointless as lying to her Father would have been. More, even–Aleishia could almost literally see into her soul. "My mind is telling me that I've done the right thing. That neither of us can afford distractions. The war that's coming is too important. My heart . . . my heart is calling me fifteen kinds of fool and would give anything to be with him now, and damn the consequences." She lowered her eyes. "Maybe I didn't pass your test after all. I still feel passion, and it feels terrible."

Aleishia shook her head, still with that serene smile. "No, apprentice. You didn't fail. The sin of the Sith is not that they feel passionately. And since I left the Order, I have realized the Jedi were wrong as well. To deny passion is to deny life, and the Force is life. The choice is whether you will rule your passions, or your passions rule you. You chose the former. You passed, with flying colors."

Thelea was still watching where the shuttle had vanished, the ghostly afterimages of its engine trails still visible when she blinked. "Well. I suppose it's for the best. It's not like either of us has all the time in the world to explore those passions, and Father definitely doesn't seem to approve," and there was a stifled guffaw from her Master that was very un-Jedi-like. "Besides, we weren't even the same species. For all I know anything beyond kissing wouldn't even mechanically work. The parts might not even line up."

She'd given up trying to shock her Master, and once again she was shown how futile that ever was. "Oh, they're similar enough," Aleishia said mildly, "or at least close enough any differences are not a problem. At least, not when the Chiss partner is male and the human female."

Thelea knew bait when it was dangled on a hook in front of her, and she knew that the side-eyed stare she was giving her Master was half the reward for Aleishia, but she couldn't help it. "Gods and ancestors, I did _not_ need to know that. Or how you know it."

Of course, that was like flinging treats to a performing lizard-monkey who couldn't resist the rewards. "I _was_ on your world for quite some time, apprentice. And there were those who found my skin and hair and eyes as exotic as humans seem to find yours. One in particular," and the dreamy smile was probably not feigned for her audience.

"Just please, tell me it wasn't anyone I know, or am related to." There were a few possibilities that might require a visit to the _Chimaera'_ s medical bay to demand an anti-nausea tablet. Or possibly to Interrogation to beg for a mind-wipe.

"Only distantly, apprentice." Well, that was something. "A young guard of your mother's, a distant cousin on the Second Family side if I recall correctly. Rather tall, very elegant, _lovely_ strong hands–"

"Please stop or I swear, I will jump off this gantry."

"You're a Jedi," Aleishia said dryly. "If you jump, you can land perfectly safely from here."

"I'll deliberately land on my head." She tried to banish the images still playing so vividly in her mind she wondered if Aleishia was helping them along. "Suddenly I understand my father's objections to Rurik. That's disgusting."

"It was wonderful," and abruptly she was serious. "We were a comfort to each other. Simply caring for another is something all beings, in some way, require. And someday, eventually, I hope you can experience something similar. Captain Caelian," and the rank sounded bizarre, and yet so right, "is a good man."

"Yes," Thelea murmured, with one final glance where the shuttle had vanished, "yes, he is." _And someday, Rurik, I'll tell you that, and maybe you can forgive me for not knowing what I had until I lost it. And when I put it that way, even Father will understand._ She looked at Aleishia, shaking herself. "Don't we have a galaxy to save?"

Aleishia, from the look on her face and her sense in the Force, understood. "Yes, we do, and more help to do so, it seems." She gestured for Thelea to precede her off the gantry, and followed her apprentice down.


End file.
